


Even In Song

by Faetality



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Whump, injured geralt, injured jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22431004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faetality/pseuds/Faetality
Summary: It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He wasn’t supposed to watch him die.~Jaskier gets hurt defending Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 515





	Even In Song

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It wasn’t supposed to _end_ like this. He wasn’t supposed to _watch him die._ He wouldn’t. 

But the man, the reckless, insane, _stupid_ man, just didn’t know when to quit. When he should have been running _away_ instead of _toward._ Be that Geralt or the fucking _bruxa_ he’d been fighting. Had been, as the creature had knocked his sword aside and dug her teeth into his flesh, rending his armor into pieces with her fingers. He was okay with dying. Jaskier shouldn’t be. The bard was far from helpless, riding so long at a Witcher’s side has taught him more than one trick, but watching him dive for the discarded silver blade was more than Geralt could handle.

He struggled under the weight of it, that much was clear but he still swings it true. Imbeds it in the bruxa’s shoulder in a strike half luck and half desperate fury. Geralt would be impressed later but it happens too fast to be so then. Not when he watches Jaskier’s body go flying toward the rocks in the next breath, not with the sickening crack of bone ringing in his ears. 

The sound that leaves his chest is primal, it might have been a word with the magic that flung the monster away from the human. More likely it was nothing but raw emotion- the kind he would swear not to feel. The kind he knew others swore he _couldn’t_ feel. He stagers up and rushes, and in a few short minutes the creatures head drops from her body. The satisfaction is brief, swallowed by the… worry. He was a Witcher. Witchers did not panic. 

“Jaskier!” He was conscious, a small comfort in the grand scheme but a comfort still to Geralt’s mind. “Jaskier, look at me.” His leg was bent in an ugly fashion and when Geralt went to help the bard lift his head his fingers came away wet with blood. “Why would you do that? Stupid- you’re so fucking stupid!”

“Saved you, didn’t I?” The words are weak, pained- they cut worse than any blade. Pierced through where no arrow could.

“Come on, we need to get somewhere safer.” He wishes briefly that Jaskier was smaller, not of a height and so damn _awkward_ to carry in his arms. At least like this. When his vision was swimming with blood loss and his body was screaming just to _rest_ . He tries to keep them stable, tries to keep _Jaskier_ stable and out of more pain than necessary. He doesn't know how far they make it before Jaskier’s hand lands on his jaw, forces him to _look._

“Stop. Geralt, _stop_.” It’s only then that he realizes the slight tremor in his arms. He casts his gaze around, there’s an outcropping of rocks a hundred yards west. 

“Okay.”

It’s somehow worse than he expected. When he cuts the pants leg loose he can _see_ the fracture, the way skin distorted over bone. It's a wonder the bard hasn’t passed out from the pain.

“How bad is it?” 

“You’ll be fine.” 

Jaskier levers himself up with a grimace which only gets worse when he lays eyes on what Geralt is seeing. “Oh gods. Oh that’s- that’s not good. That’s not _fine, Geralt_ .” He starts to drop back down and Geralt has to lunge to keep his head from hitting the rock again. Stars float across his vision but Jaskier doesn’t notice the tremor. _Small mercies._

“Jaskier, I’m going to have to set the bone.” The response is a whine. He takes a strap of leather from his bag along with a potion. The strap he folds over; “Bite down on this.” He makes sure Jaskier is stable, laid down and as prepared as possible. The potion he downs himself. Something to kick the healing up a notch and to steady his hands. The blood loss, the exhaustion, it was all second to _fixing_ his friend. He knows his eyes go black when the liquid hits his system but Jaskier is too focused on breathing to notice. That’s good. He doesn’t need fear alongside the pain. “Ready?” 

“ _Mmhm.”_

He places hands on the bard’s leg and takes a breath of his own. “On three. One, t-“ _crack._ Jaskier _cries_ and the leather does little to muffle the scream. “It’s over, it’s over, breathe in. Here let me-“ he gentle the strap from his teeth and runs fingers through the sweat dampened hair. “There’s a stream nearby, I’m going to get you water. At the first sign of anything you _scream_ . Do you understand?” A shaky nod is all the response he gets but it’s enough for him to _go._

He fills the canteen in but a minute and high tails it back to the outcropping of rocks. All is well when he returns and Jaskier even manages a weak, strained smile. He shouldn’t be smiling at Geralt. Not after what happened. Not with how he knew he looked. Like a demon with blackened eyes and skin too pale, bloodied _everything._

“Are you hurt?” The bard trembles, nothing but concern in his voice. _Are you hurt?_ How could he ask that of him? But he did and he’s expecting an answer. 

“I’m alright. Nothing I haven’t survived before.”

“You… you should sit. With me. Yes. You’re tired too.” Geralt props his swords against the rock in easy reach and settled back. After a moment he feels pressure on his thigh. Jaskier has shifted, head pillows on the witcher's thigh. He didn’t ask permission but Geralt would have freely given it no matter. 

“Don’t fall asleep, Jaskier.” 

“Then tell me a story.”

“That’s your area, Bard.” 

“And? You have more to tell.” 

It’s a long moment, several too slow heartbeats before he begins to speak. His voice is slow and deep, unsure how to begin. 

“In Kaer Morhen, where all Witchers are made, there’s a lake...” He talks until Jaskier shifts again with a hiss of pain where he stills even further, even the rise and fall of his chest stops. He talks until Jaskier parts chapped lips and says words that Geralt is sure no Witcher has had directed at them in their long history. Certainly not him. 

“You’re very pretty. Your voice.” 

“That’s the blood loss.” 

“It’s not.” 

Jaskier does sleep, when Geralt is no longer so concerned that new problems were going to arise and the woods are relatively safe. He sleeps through most of the night and wakes just before dawn with a start, a hiss of pain, and then a groan. 

Geralt packs their things and they make their way back to town in a slow progression of half supporting Jaskier and growing frustrated with the bard’s stubbornness and simply carrying him much like a bride. By the time they reach the inn where they- _Jaskier-_ had insisted on staying Geralt can almost pretend the eve hadn’t happened. That everything after setting the bone back in place was a half baked dream brought on by blood loss. Almost. If not for the lingering of touches on his arm and shoulder, the brush of fingers as he washes blood from Jaskier’s hair, they way he can’t stop himself from tucking the blanket just a little higher to wrap Jaskier more firmly when he shivers, the way Jaskier looks at him from his cocoon like maybe he’s not what the rumors that followed him everywhere said. Well, Jaskier had never been one for those rumors in the first place but he’d never seemed to think of Geralt as much more than inspiration, maybe even a friend in recent years. But the stories were always what came first.

Stories were what made the bard travel. Songs were how he made himself known. Songs were what Jaskier lived for, and stories were just songs without melody. Or so he said.

Geralt climbs onto the unoccupied bed and closes his eyes; he pretends he doesn’t hear the soft humming that would become the bard’s next ballad. Pretends he doesn’t know what it’s about. A love song seemed like such silly things. After all, Witchers weren’t loved. Even in song. 

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of sad, bittersweet, all is well but not all is right fic. It started as a hurt and comfort than it got more angsty instead of less.


End file.
